The Prince's Bride (Part 1) - J.J. McAvoy Page 0,21

the baggage claim, I saw a familiar freckle-faced, blond-haired palace guard already carrying my luggage. He stepped up to me and nodded. “Welcome, Your Highness.”

“You are not to call him that in public, Wolfgang. Sir or Mr. DeLacour is fine,” Iskandar stated, already behind me, giving me back my hat and sunglasses. “Is everything prepared?”

They spoke amongst themselves as if I weren’t here. I felt a similar sense of entrapment come over me. It was like being a puppet, with no control of where you go, how you got there, or what was to happen to you while you were there. You just went. You just did as you were told, and part of me truly wanted to say screw it. Run for the doors. Or at the very least do something...freeing. But as soon as the thought came to mind, the memory of my father yesterday took over.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” I focused back on them.

“We are ready to depart if you are,” Iskandar said, stepping to the side for me to walk past.

“I am. But where are we going? I believe my brother might have told you more than he has told me,” I said as we all headed out. “What time is it?”

“It is six in the evening, Pacific Daylight Time. Ersovia is nine hours ahead of Seattle. Would you like me to adjust your watch?” Iskandar asked, outstretching his hand for it.

“I can manage on my own for that, at least,” I replied, taking off the watch as we exited the terminal only to blasted by frigid air. It went through me instantly. Luckily, or by precision planning on the part of my brother and Iskandar, a large, black Range Rover was already parked and waiting for us. Wolfgang held open the door for me, and the first thing I did was look for the heating vent.

“Hello.”

My head whipped toward the voice of a brown-skinned woman—dressed in pink with light-colored eyes and short, blonde hair—staring at me.

“Jesus Christ!” I panicked, shifting away.

She laughed at me. “Sorry, did I frighten you?”

“Who are you?”

She stared at me with furrowed eyebrows, and I realized I was still speaking in Ersovian and not English. “Sorry, you are going to have to repeat that.”

“I think you are in the wrong car,” I said this time.

“Aww, that accent is to die for,” she replied instead.

“Sir,” Iskandar spoke as he entered the passenger side of the car, and a driver I didn’t recognize took the steering wheel. “This is Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith. Ms. Odette Wyntor’s mother.”

I glanced at the very young-looking woman beside me. How in the world did she have a daughter who was older than me? It was only by staring at her that I noticed the similar features from what I had seen in the photograph of her daughter.

“Thank you for meeting us, ma’am,” Iskandar said to her.

My mind took a moment—luckily, it was just a moment—to register. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am—”

“I know who you are, obviously,” she stated but took my hand and shook it anyway. “And now you know who I am, so we can skip the hellos and get right down to business.”

Everyone said Americans were forward, and she definitely didn’t seem to want to break that stereotype.

“Forgive me, but I have not been informed much about this deal. In fact, they only told me of it recently—”

“What a coincidence. I only just told Odette, too. However, she is being stubborn and completely refused. She didn’t even want to consider it, so we’re going to need to work together.”

“Wait.” I paused. “She refused? Outright?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“You told her who I was?”

“That you are a prince. Her exact words were ‘Good for him. I don’t care.’ She’s very stubborn. But she gets that from me, so I can’t really be mad at her for it.” She snickered.

I sat back in the seat. I had never been rejected by proxy before. Had I ever been rejected before?

“So she doesn’t want this marriage, either?” So, it wouldn’t be my fault if it doesn’t work. Hope filled me until Iskandar’s annoying self decided to cough as if to remind me—clearly remind me—none of that mattered.

“Don’t take it personally. Odette says she doesn’t want to get married to anyone.” She frowned, almost as if she were aggravated by her own daughter’s wishes.

“I know why I am here,” I replied seriously, sitting up. “It is for your money. Correction, your daughter’s money. She most likely knows that, too. It would be reasonable for